


Of a Feather, but a Flock Apart

by MathClassWarfare



Series: I Don't Mind Some Slight Disorder [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Canon Related, Gen, POV Chocobo, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:02:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22570675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MathClassWarfare/pseuds/MathClassWarfare
Summary: A poem from the chocobo post
Series: I Don't Mind Some Slight Disorder [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1760605
Comments: 10
Kudos: 14





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update 5/19/20: Ch 1 is the revised version of this poem, the original is at Ch 2 now. Thanks so much to [Akumeoi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Akumeoi) for the feedback while I was revising this for my poetry class final portfolio

**Of a Feather, but a Flock Apart**

He bounds up to the fence  
with tasty greens.

We lift our heads.  
We flap our wings.  
We warble: _a friend!_

His feathers aren’t exactly like ours,  
but we try to preen anyway. 

He laughs.  
He dodges.  
He scratches our necks. 

Then he returns to his own  
flock, and we settle down again.

Later,  
when the whistle’s  
call cuts through

the humming,  
swaying,  
buzzing of our clearing, 

we hop to it. 

Wings pulled back,  
heads dipped low,  
we run,

Sleek and fast,  
through the trees.

There’s  
that familiar  
plumage! 

There’s  
that smiling  
face,

Seeing us,  
and being seen.

Here are hands that pat  
and smooth  
and feed. 

Here is gratitude  
for the lift,

over the next ridge,  
to the water’s edge,  
the mouth of a cave.

There, we stop.

We know that we’ve  
done a good job.

Without passengers,  
we stretch  
our wings. 

The sunlight  
warms our  
backs. 

Little things  
scurry  
in the rocks. 

We wander.  
We sip from the stream.  
We wait for a friendly call.


	2. Chapter 2

He bounds up to the fence with tasty greens.  
We lift our heads. We flap our wings. We tap our feet. 

We warble: a friend!

His feathers aren’t exactly like ours—but we try to preen anyway.  
He laughs, he dodges, he scratches our necks. 

Then he returns to his own flock, and we settle in again.  
  


When that whistle cuts through the humming, swaying, buzzing of our clearing, we hop to it.  
Wings pulled back, heads dipped low, we run—sleek and fast, through the trees.

There’s that familiar plumage. There’s that smiling face—seeing us,  
Being seen.

Hands that pat and smooth and feed.  
Gratitude for the lift—over the next ridge, to the water’s edge, the mouth of a cave.  
We know that we’ve done a good job.

Without passengers, we stretch our wings.  
The sunlight warms our backs.  
Little things scurry in the rocks. 

We wander.  
We sip from the stream.  
We wait for a friendly call.

**Author's Note:**

> This was actually an assignment for my poetry class. The prompt was a newspaper headline, which I used as the title. Nobody else in my class knew anything about Final Fantasy (?!). In the large group workshop, everyone was puzzling over what kinds of birds these were, while I giggled to myself.
> 
> (Thanks to [Chofi](%E2%80%9C) for the feedback and suggestions while I was working on this!)


End file.
